


if your cascade ocean wave blues come

by ragesyndrome



Series: safehouse [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Communication, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Quote: Statement Begins (The Magnus Archives), Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Survivor Guilt, jon tries to be cute and it backfires so much, ohhhhh angst, theyre in love and it isnt easy but theyre doing their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragesyndrome/pseuds/ragesyndrome
Summary: “I wanted to tell you. About you. About how I fell in love with you.”I am projecting... respectfully.....
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: safehouse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988704
Comments: 30
Kudos: 164





	if your cascade ocean wave blues come

**Author's Note:**

> CW:  
> \- A fuck ton of survivor’s guilt  
> \- There is some, I guess dubious consent about statement-giving itself in this and how once a person starts giving a statement they can’t really stop and how everyone in the vicinity kind of has to listen to it until it’s over. They both feel the effects of this and they do their best to communicate about it.

And it  _ hurt  _ sometimes. And he knew that it shouldn’t.

“Martin?”

He knew, with the selfish delicious parts of himself that still, secretly, indulged in such things, that he hated himself for it, and what a comfort that was. It  _ shouldn’t _ hurt to get everything you’ve ever wanted. But he had defined himself by  _ wanting _ for so long, that now that he  _ had  _ it he did not know how to love it.

You can define yourself by suffering, when you’ve had to tolerate it for a long enough time. So what is left of you when you cease to suffer so much?

He loved Jon. That much was easy. Letting Jon love  _ him _ was another story entirely.

“Martin.”

“Hmm?” He was not paying attention. He was very determinedly not paying attention. He was reading. And not thinking about loving Jon and not thinking about what it meant for his sense of self, to love and be loved. About what it left of him if he was desired, if he was not defined as the thing that wanted and was not wanted back. About the horrible aching question, what if,  _ what if  _ Jon genuinely wanted him this much and he got used to it and then it  _ stopped? _

_ “Mah-tin.” _

“I’m reading, Jon.”

At this, Jon began to creep from his side of the couch onto Martin, crawling up his lap. Martin kept his gaze stoically locked on the pages of his terrible novel. It was quite an enjoyable read actually. He’d been paying attention to it, some time ago, he was sure. Before the very ridiculous writing had, somehow, stirred too-real feelings. And Martin was entirely, one hundred percent capable of not being moved by a sudden lapful of archivist, nor by the fact that said archivist had begun  _ whining _ at him. Christ but he could be needy sometimes. “Martin,” Jon said again. “My love, my  _ darling… _ ”

He could feel his face blushing deep, the same as he felt Jon’s eyes light upon that high pink stain with glee. Those were some  _ entirely _ too satisfied eldritch heart eyes. Martin licked his finger and flicked the page with terribly feigned nonchalance. He could be unaffected, he was sure of it. “You’re not going to interrupt my quiet reading time just because you feel like being cute, Jon.”  _ Or my quiet existential despair time. _

Jon who was now pushing his face against Martin’s like, like a  _ cat _ headbutting for attention, ridiculous. Jon who now blocked his view of his book and twisted his hands into Martin’s curls. It was so much like so many fantasies, and Martin could not describe how the ecstasy in such imagining was in not really having what you dreamed of. How he could not express such acceptance toward all this affection in real life the way he always did in his head.

“Oh?” Jon tilted his head at him, glowing warm and grinning. Like it was so easy. Like it was not burdened by a lifetime of yearning and repressing, and that startled Martin because the fact remained that he knew it  _ was. _ That Jon had wanted and suffered as much as he had and it was not either one’s fault that they express it in different ways. That, frankly, suave as he may act at times, Jon was a whole turbulent storm of emotions just under the carefully constructed surface. And Martin was not entirely different but not entirely the same. On some level, poetry and daydreams sustained him, at least enough. That keeping it all bottled up was half the fun of it.

“So you think I’m cute?” Jon pushed. Ridiculous.

“I think you’re  _ insufferable _ .” Martin tried to adjust his arms around Jon, holding the book high over his head and straining to keep reading it.

“Sure, sure, keep reading your  _ awful, heterosexual _ vampire romance,” said Jon in mock indignation. “Nevermind that I’m  _ literally _ right here.” Jon pulled himself higher then, so his face hovered over Martin’s and there was simply no way to keep reading at this point. How he loved to pretend it annoyed him.

Martin struggled to keep himself from smiling now. Dropped his book to the floor with a theatrical sigh and gave Jon his best withering glare. “Happy now?”

Jon  _ did _ look happy. And what a sight it was. An archivist grinning delightedly, all pliant and glowing with affection. Someone could paint him like this. The dramatic shadow of the late evening and the firelight was doing quite a lot for Jon, turning his scars into threads of gold and burning something quite lovely in the depths of his eyes.

“I wanted to tell you,” said Jon, contenting himself with caressing Martin’s face. His fingertips ran down Martin’s cheek and a delicious shiver ran through Martin, like he wasn’t used to this now, like they hadn’t been all over each other for  _ days _ . Skin and bones and  _ words _ of affirmation that shook him deep. Jon was  _ his _ and sometimes the knowledge of it shuddered Martin’s very skin, and sometimes he was so very far away he could barely feel it through the fog.

When Jon apparently forgot to continue, Martin prodded, “Tell me what?”

Jon’s eyes locked on him. That intense way he had of seeing, of beholding, where all the world fell away and left you vulnerable to his undivided observation. “About you. About how I fell in love with you.”

“O-oh. Heh. Okay.” Martin shifted suddenly, overwhelmed by Jon’s eyes so ardently focused on him. He should’ve been getting used to this. He  _ was _ getting used to it, but, well. Sometimes it took him by surprise still, how deeply and unapologetically  _ romantic _ Jonathan Sims was. How he gave himself to it like it was easy to be this consumed with affection, like all that passion had been boiling under the surface for years and suddenly he wasn’t trying to hide it anymore.

Which, Martin supposed, was exactly the case. But  _ Martin’s _ love had boiled within his skin for years and he’d had the good sense to, well, eke it out in poetry and cups of tea all that time. Had it worked, or was Jon as overwhelmed by the force of his affection now as Martin was by his? Martin both hoped that he was and that he wasn’t. He wanted to be so much, to be a force that was reckoned with. But not  _ too _ much.

“Tell me,” he said softly. He pulled Jon by the waist into a more comfortable position, surrendering himself to his eldritch boyfriend’s attention.  _ Boyfriend, _ god. He still wasn’t used to it. He was still getting hung up on the semantics and here Jon was, crawling all over him to specifically tell him their  _ love story.  _ Honestly, Jon had no business scoffing at Martin’s cheap paperbacks if he was going to conduct his real life like a character from one.

Somewhere, a tape recorder clicked on. They did not hear it.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, The Archivist,” said Jon with a grin. Martin rolled his eyes, why was Jon such a dork. “Regarding his experience falling in love with Martin Blackwood. Statement begins.

“I was not having… a good time, when I started as Head Archivist.” Jon adjusted as he spoke, laying his head on Martin’s chest so he could be more comfortable. His voice was already changing, taking that deeper intonation reserved for statements, but it wasn’t… it was hard for Martin to describe, other than to say that it wasn’t on  _ full power _ . Something about Jon’s hands continuing to play with Martin’s hair, grounding him, maybe.

“I was not prepared for the job, and I was desperate to look like I was. I, well. I was not entirely sure what an archivist was even supposed to  _ do _ , and Elias said something about  _ making the job my own _ that struck me as odd, like there was a lot of creative freedom to filing statements. I remember thinking, was that his way of commenting on the state Gertrude had left the place in? I-I didn’t know her, I was so stupid then, really, I thought she was just a silly old lady who didn’t know or didn’t care to do her job.” Jon sighed. “I’m getting off track.”

_ It’s alright, _ Martin wanted to say. He didn’t really  _ need _ to hear about Jon specifically falling in love with him - like, it was nice, and life-affirming and all that, but Jon could certainly talk about anything else weighing his mind.  _ You’re allowed, _ he wanted to say. Yet it was hard to even open his mouth, his voice feeling very small and far away, like trying to dislodge something from the earth that had been buried for so long. Jon’s statement voice was so  _ heavy _ , Martin could not lift his own against it.

“The point is,” Jon went on. “I had no idea what I was in for, and I was very insecure about it. And then,” Martin could hear the smile even if he couldn’t see it, his view obstructed by Jon’s hair as it were, “there was a  _ dog _ in the archives, apparently. It felt like an omen, like of course this would happen on my first day, and, I almost quit right then - or, I suppose I couldn’t have - I don’t think I would have anyway, it was more a fleeting thought I told myself as a joke. Anyway. There was a dog in the archives, and the person unfortunate enough to be the bearer of this news was  _ you _ . And. I saw you and you were beautiful and you were ruining my day and I was already so tired of the job.” Jon shifted a bit uncomfortably now, heat radiating from his face all the way through Martin’s sweater. “I didn’t give you much benefit of the doubt, I… I was not especially kind.”

Again.  _ It’s okay, _ Martin wanted to say. Not least of which because he had never particularly  _ minded _ , he’d never once read Jon’s clipped comments as sincerely mean. He remembered those early days and largely, the only thing about Jon that had frightened him was that he might realize Martin’s CV was faked. But then he’d seen how little his boss even knew about archiving either, and, Martin had been able to relax a bit. Apparently no one in the department had any library training, so, he was probably fine. After that, Jon’s remarks about Martin’s incompetence had been  _ funny _ .

And, well. In some ways it had been nice. To feel seen (even if it was just for his incompetence). The way everyone else sort of, quietly made excuses for Martin and made up for his mistakes, too afraid to tell him when he did something stupid, like they were afraid the criticism would break him just because he knew how to be sweet. But not Jon. Jon would scrutinize him so _ intensely _ at times and, and yeah it was kinda nerve-wracking but at the same time he didn’t feel _ invisible _ anymore. It mattered when he fucked up because Jon both needed and expected more from him. Martin didn’t feel like a broken third wheel (was that a mixed metaphor or did it work? he wondered), everyone quietly putting up with him because, frankly, Jon did _ not _ quietly tolerate him. Jon was quite bitchy about everything and it made Martin feel so  _ warm _ . When he lashed out it was with the expectation that Martin could do better. And, Martin found, he could.

“I am sorry I took my insecurity out on you,” said Jon. His intonation had almost a choked quality to it now, and Martin realized…. All this time that he had been pretty much okay with their interpersonal history, Jon had  _ not. _

Trying to lift his own voice out of the depths of his self was like, like waiting for the last drop of honey to crawl out of the bottle, how it clung every inch of the way. He just had to accept that he could not speak. It was okay. After this, he thought. After. He would tell Jon it was okay.

“You were attacked by Jane Prentiss,” Jon went on. “You were attacked, and I, I did not think I deserved the indulgence of how guilty I felt. Of how much I wished I had known, somehow. I had this idea that magically I should have  _ known _ you better, to know you were in danger, which was ridiculous, I really hardly spoke to you back then. I don’t know how much of it was, was survivor’s guilt. From what happened when I was a child.  _ A Guest for Mr. Spider. _ I think you heard the statement. Anyway. The idea that I might’ve let you get hurt.”

Jon shuddered and Martin mollified him with loving caresses in circles about his temples. And it. Was not. Enough. Not enough to break the intonation or to soothe the anxious shivers rolling down Jon’s spine and not enough to stamp out the memories. Jane banging on his door endlessly and Martin had been so  _ uselessly _ frightened, he’d been running from that feeling ever since, even if it was only with a brandished corkscrew.

“It. I thought it would kill me, the guilt that someone I was responsible for had been attacked and I hadn’t even  _ known _ while it was happening. But, well. Everything with Sasha. Clearly all of that did not kill me, even if I wanted it to. You survived Prentiss at your apartment and I survived the guilt and I survived you staying in the archives, even when I, well, wanted to crawl into the cot you’d taken, every night, and promise nothing else was going to come after you. I rationalized it quite well, back then, actually. Guilty boss and all that. Too much paperwork to replace you. I got very good at convincing myself to go home and leave you there, though I did not love it.” He laughed, a quiet, humorless kind of huff. “The way I wanted to hold your face and make you feel safe. But every time I tried to say something, it came out so abrasive.

“I think,” Jon went on, breaking his words like he did not entirely want to be saying them, “I think, falling in love takes, some willingness? Or if not falling, then, choosing. A willingness that, I did not have for a, a long time. But. I cared, Martin.

“I cared even when I couldn’t trust you, I, I didn’t trust  _ anyone _ and I was so especially frightened that it was you. I didn’t want it to be you. And then, fuck. You told me about your CV. And I decided to trust you. It, it wasn’t easy to, and it took me a while to figure out trusting someone didn’t just mean, trusting they weren’t plotting your death but also trusting them enough to lean on them. It took me too long, really. And I wasn’t willing to really consider what it meant, everything I was feeling. I guess I didn’t have much time for it anyway. But I knew I couldn’t have you anywhere near the Unknowing when things went down. I think I was really convinced that I was going to be able to stop everything as long as I wasn’t distracted by worrying for you. I, well.” He cleared his throat. “You played your part better than I did. And everything went to shit.

“And I woke up. And I missed you.

“I think the Lonely had me almost as much as it had you, for a time. It was… a bad year. And I learned that I loved you. It happened… just one night, when I was up too late reading some statements. I’d made tea for myself and it, it was terrible.”

Deep, deep under the weight of the Archivist and the Statement, Martin felt some bubbling humor despite himself. It rolled back away smoothly, under the heavy words and the aching memories, but yes, yes. Jon’s tea was awful. He could not be accused of exaggerating this fact.

“And by this point I was never not thinking of you, really, but I tried to keep it tucked away, somehow, only now I was thinking about the lovely tea you used to make and then I was thinking about how kind you were and how many times I slammed the door in your face and, and I had  _ died _ and I had so much work to do but all I wanted was you. I knew that, that you had loved me once, and I wanted to scream at myself for missing it until it was too late.

“And sometimes the Beholding, I think, liked to torture me a little with that. Drop a tidbit of knowledge I hadn’t asked it for. Like the poem you’d written about walking through London at night with someone you love and how, how you’d imagined it was me. Or all the times you stood up for me when Tim was making some very solid and justified cases against me. Or how you sat at my hospital bed and demanded I come back to you. I wish I had heard it back then. I would have… I would have come back just for you.

“The Powers are no good for lovely and kind things. Even when the Eye showed me, made me  _ feel, _ how much you had really  _ loved _ me, it, it was a weapon. It only wanted to hurt me. And it didn’t have to lie to do it.”

He shuddered, horribly, and Martin worried about his bones and his organs falling out of place. But his voice did not change.

“I don’t know what you heard on the tapes. I think part of me wanted you to hear how desperately I wanted you back. It didn’t feel like something I was  _ allowed _ to just say - it, I suppose it wasn’t, really. You needed to figure out what Peter was up to and I, my feelings were, a liability. But it’s not… I can’t blame you for any of that. I don’t. I was just worried.”

“I tried to dream about you. Not consciously, but on the rare occasion that I slept, that I saw everyone’s dreams, I was always searching for you. I knew you were protected from it, by working at the Institute, but I still tried. If I could have just had regular dreams I’m sure I would’ve seen you.

“And I found out we could leave. It wasn’t a good option but I thought, here was something. I could throw everything away for this. I think you were wrong, you know. I didn’t go to you so you’d call me out about how I’d never do it. It wasn’t just about running away, it’s… if I’d had something to run toward, maybe. I think I could have done it. And for you, anything to potentially make you safe, yeah, I would have. But it, it was too late to convince you. I was always too late.

“It happened again, when Peter took you. I was too late, I… I tried so hard, Martin. Even asked Helen for help, for all the good it did. And then I thought I lost you and, yeah, I would never take back what I did, going into the Lonely for you, but, the way I didn’t have to think about it was maybe a little self-destructive. Like, if I went in and I couldn’t find you, I didn’t want to come back out. But I did. I found you. And… and, god, Martin. You saw me. And you love me and I love you and it’s… everything is so hard, but this is good.

“S-statement ends.”

The air crackled, and like that, the spell was lifted.

Martin was, very suddenly, very much in his body again, the way you become aware just how small your lungs are when you’re plunged into ice cold water. And then he saw how Jon was faring.

“M-Martin, I - ” Jon shivered suddenly, sitting up and pulling away from Martin as his eyes went wide. “Martin, I - I didn’t -”

On autopilot Martin followed him with his arms, hands going to Jon’s hair the way he knew comforted Jon. He  _ had _ to comfort Jon because if he  _ didn’t _ then he’d have to  _ sit _ with all his  _ own _ feelings and it was  _ so  _ much - “It’s okay, Jon, it’s alright -”

“No, I, I called it a statement as a  _ joke _ , I didn’t think it would really -”

“Jon,” said Martin firmly. He had his voice back and it felt strong. Gentle, but sure. Jon needed this. “My love. Please listen to me.” Jon willingly stopped stammering and met Martin’s eyes. “I-it’s okay, Jon. It’s really okay. I believe that you didn’t mean to, you know, go into all that. I  _ believe _ you.”

“Oh,” said Jon. His voice was so small now. He pushed forward now, his face between Martin’s neck and shoulder, and his voice was so muffled Martin could barely hear him. “Martin, it was supposed to be  _ cute. _ I was just going to tell you how lovely I always thought you were, not, not rehash our collective trauma and force you to sit through it.”

“I know,” said Martin against his hair. “I know, my dear.” The… helplessness, of watching Jon go through his statement and be unable to interject, to comfort, to speak at all… yeah, it had been a lot. But at least, Martin thought, he hadn’t been the one uncontrollably spilling the depths of his thoughts and feelings. He was fairly confident that Jon hadn’t actually said much he wouldn’t want Martin to know - at least, he hoped so - but really, that was not the point.

“Would it help if I told you I still think it  _ was _ cute?” he asked. Brushed a thumb under Jon’s eyes, taking his tears with it. “Not the whole, you know, Beholding forcing you to relive your trauma bit. But. It was nice to hear that you always  _ liked _ me.”

Jon laughed weakly, the kind of laugh that told Martin he wasn’t quite done crying. His lungs had a wet and broken sort of sound. “Martin, really, if after all that you still don’t realize how much I love -”

“No, no, I know,” Martin pushed into Jon’s face, a little kiss above his brow. Oh, they were both shaking now, weren’t they? “I know you love me, really. I just never thought, back then, you know, when we first started working together. I never thought you  _ liked _ me. I liked you ever so much and I thought, it was just a silly crush, you know? Just something that was mine and I could enjoy in peace.”

“I wish I had enjoyed it,” said Jon. “Instead of being a right prat about it.”

“Yes, well, that is one of the things I quite like about you, you ridiculous man.” Martin carded his fingers through Jon’s hair, closing his eyes as Jon pressed feather-light kisses to his face. They really were not in a very good position on the couch now, as Martin’s spine was becoming increasingly aware, so he pulled Jon fully back to his lap, bony knees on either side of his hips, and with Jon seated on his legs his face was almost the same height as Martin’s. He resumed petting Jon’s hair, regulating his breathing so Jon could copy.

“Martin,” said Jon softly. “God. Everything I said, about, about you and Peter Lukas, you know I didn’t mean it like that, I -”

“I know,” said Martin. His chest did feel a bit tight now, huh? He was going to have to acknowledge things, and they grated against him. “Jon, I. We were both so alone. I wanted to be there for you, and I… I know how it affected you, the way I acted. You don’t have to protect me from that.”

“But you were just trying to protect  _ me _ -”

“- And I did a bang up job of it, didn’t I?” Martin sighed. Oh, it wasn’t the time for guilt. Delicious lovely comforting guilt. “Jon. We both tried so hard. If I can believe you did your best and you can believe I did, then, then we need to accept it for ourselves, don’t we?”

Jon nodded slowly, pushing his arms around Martin and his fingers into Martin’s curls. “I love you,” he said like it was grounding him. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Martin whispered back. Ran his hands down Jon’s spine and then back up, like he was coaxing any final sobs out of him. Jon was running hot now, physical heat radiating from his skin the way he did any time he got very emotional, and Martin knew the heat would leave Jon soon and then he would be shivering cold. Sometimes tea was enough to help with that. “What can I do, Jon?”

Jon took a deep breath, like it pained him to even consider self care in that moment. “I. I don’t know. Fuck, I’m sorry. My head is hurting terribly now, I think, maybe a shower, some hot steam would be nice.” He only pressed himself closer against Martin then, hugging him tight like he didn’t want to do anything that required letting go.

“That sounds like a good idea.” Martin thought for a second. About whether or not either of them really wanted to be alone right now, even if it was only for a half hour. “I could wash your hair, if you like.”

It had taken no small amount of effort for him to say this without stammering, and he felt Jon’s deep surprise. Over the last few days, Martin had carefully catalogued what touch Jon was okay with and what he was not, and this was something he had been thinking about, the potential vulnerability of showering together. Jon knew Martin didn’t mean more than that - he  _ knew _ he knew, or trusted it at least. It was just that sometimes the Lonely snagged a piece of him again and the two best things for pulling him out of it were Jon arms and hot water, so, naturally, he wanted to combine the two. And he thought Jon himself could probably use that right now.

After a moment of deliberate thought, Jon nodded. “Yes,” he said, voice gone immeasurably soft. “I’d like that.” And Martin thought, yeah, once Jon was warmed up a bit and a little less rattled, they were going to sit in the  _ hurt _ a little and keep talking about everything. Because Martin had some statements himself - not the capital-S kind - that he probably needed to make.

But for now, they were going to hold each other, and then they were going to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> ouch ouch  
> i had a migraine while writing this so no proofreading  
> so this was born of a throwaway line in my first safehouse fic, where jon thinks about how he wants to eventually sit martin down and tell him all about how he fell in love with him. which is a cute idea, but then i was thinking about how directly his falling for martin is tied to all the trauma they went thru together, and yeah, here we are.  
> comment pls so i'm valid <3  
> title from "peace" by taylor swift


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